Crimson Rain
by Amaranth1412
Summary: His domain was of fiery speeches and blazing passion, glorious days and hearts aflame, radiant sunlight and golden summers. Hers was the realm of shadows and moonlit nights, whispered secrets at street corners, icy darkness and harsh winters. The barricade falls, leaving shattered dreams and broken souls in the aftermath.


**A/N: My first Les Miserables fanfic, dedicated to the greatest couple that never was. Set mostly in the 2012 movie-verse, with slices from the book and musical. Constructive criticism will be much appreciated.**

* * *

It had been raining, that night when her life should have ended upon the pile of furniture and cobblestones known famously as the last barricade. The men gather in a circle, pale and trembling faces she only recently came to know, gazing at her with a mixture of pity and fear. Their expressions mirror one unspoken thought: this is how it will end. In the cold, unfeeling embrace of death. She pities them, youths at their prime marching to their graves, their destinies entangled in this web of madness.

A lone tear slips down her brother's cheek-Gavroche who never cried, even when he was disowned by his own family, now shedding a tear for her. She feels a wet pressure as arms wrap around her. Her mind barely registers that they belong to Monsieur Marius, and suddenly it doesn't matter. She is going to die. And she will die for a cause. It sounds noble, the complete opposite of all she's ever been, a thief doing a heroic act, but everything about the revolution seems strange anyway.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an envelope. With shaking fingers, she presses it into Monsieur Marius' palm. It all started with a letter—with messages scrawled on stolen paper by deceptive hands; how fitting that it should end this way.

Regret tugs at the corner of her eye, finding outlet in droplets of salty liquid. Will it haunt her in the afterlife? Fear urges her to do the unthinkable. There is nothing to lose; she will tell him.

_"I think I might have liked you a little_." A weight is lifted off her chest, and a light blush tinges her cheeks, as she accepts at last that she will never be with the boy she loves.

Half lidded eyes scan the heavens. "I want to see them, Monsieur. When…the flowers…grow." She rambles on and he lets her. A futile hope, the only thing they have left in this war. A horde of hopes and dreams clumsily thrown together as flimsily as this barricade—this mere straw fortress which cannot last.

She manages a faltering smile before her breath expires. The light drizzle could hardly cleanse her of all the filth and grime accumulated through the years, but it seems to erase the memories of her miserable past as her mind gradually succumbs to oblivion. The girl of the streets slips away as death claims her. No big fuss. No glorious gun salutes or mournful wails to acknowledge her brief existence. Nothing but darkness and relief from her wretched life in the gutters.

A ghost of a kiss sweeps past Eponine's brow, one she can never feel. From the distance, a blonde man watches, noting her grime-covered face and matted dark locks. Her hand hangs limp at her side; even in the stillness of death, it is not fully straight, as though her life remains unfinished, with crooked turns ahead, like the twisted alleys she once called home.

* * *

The cobblestones of Rue Mondetour were bathed in pools of crimson, drenched in the blood of martyrs for freedom, that fateful morning in early June when he should have died.

The first rays of light are Hades' messengers heralding their doom. He has not slept a wink the past night, plagued with worries and fears, as if all emotions were unleashed like a bottle of ale uncorked. Like a pendulum, his thoughts swing erratically between hope and despair, wondering if people would stir and support their cause or if today would be their last. An hour later, he has made up his mind. Wearily he climbs down his perch to break to his last remaining supporters them the dreaded news: the citizens will not come. They are on their own.

They choose to die fighting. Students and workers from all works of life with nothing but courage and dreams of a better tomorrow engraved on their valiant hearts. Thirty men untrained in the art of combat facing down an entire army of France's National Guard. The enemy's ranks come pouring in endlessly, and piercing gunshots and the thunderous boom of cannons ring out, each one shattering their dream into a million more pieces. But the walls of Troy must crumble eventually, and all their bravado fails to keep their fortress from falling prey to the mighty cannons at last. One falls to the right, a scream rings out from the left. Bahorel, Jehan, and Gavroche have departed already, and it is not long before Bossuet, Feully, Joly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac join their ranks in the afterlife. By then, it's no longer about the revolution. They fight tooth and nail, like a cat cornered against a wall. No chance you'll win, take down as many as you can when you fall.

It ends too soon, the massacre too gruesome, the men too young. There is nothing romantic or glorious about their deaths. They thought they could be strong. They thought they could stare death in the eye and remain unfazed. They never dreamed it would be like this.

His barricade in ruins, the revolution a wreck, his comrades fallen, their once glorious dream crumbled into an ugly disaster, Enjolras reloads his gun, firing one last shot before heading towards the Corinth. He is the leader, and it his duty to display presence of mind though he himself is barely more than tattered shreds inside. He and three remaining men press forward, their lives hanging by a slender thread.

A few gunshots later and it is over.

Cornered at the second floor and joined by the last man on Earth he expected, he shoots one last defiant glare at the National Guard, prepared to die for his beloved Patria and join his friends in the journey to the Land of the Dead. He will go down with dignity, a martyr for his country. A chair scrapes the rough wood floor, and Grantaire inches his way towards him, still holding on to his ever-present wine bottle.

"Do you permit it?"

He nods, and clasps the other's hand, relishing the irony for a brief second before he raises the flag.

"Vive la France!" It is a cry for justice, a wail of grief, and a triumphal shout all at once.

Pain shoots through his body the moment he hears blasts ring out, and suddenly he is falling into darkness.

* * *

She finds herself walking barefoot down the crowded streets of Paris. The blazing midday sun parches her throat, the sun-baked cobblestones scorch her feet like coals, and an empty stomach makes her sway with hunger.

A group of children run in a wild chase down the road, nearly colliding into her. In a flash, she sees them, two young girls and a boy. The dark-haired lass turns and smiles, her hair a messy tangle and her face smudged with dirt. Her eyes sparkle with life, and Eponine finds herself staring at her younger self. The younger one giggles, clad in nothing but a threadbare chemise and tattered skirt. Azelma. The boy whistles, and for a fleeting moment, the mop of blond hair and cocky smile melt into the image of Gavroche. A sudden gust of wind sweeps her cap off her head and onto the pavement, but she makes no move to retrieve it, for all she sees is her brother's smile, and the corners of her lips curve upward, too.

She feels the urge to chase them, to join them in their game of tag but they run away and though she follows, the maze of narrow streets meanders on and on, and soon they are far away and she cannot keep up. She calls out, but her voice shrivels into a hoarse whisper. She longs to grab on to them, to hug them, to be with them once more. She longs for the old days, wants her brother alive and her sister well and parents who actually care for them, and maybe even that little servant girl she would call a mouse. She would even give up Monsieur Marius to have the picture complete. Like puzzle pieces, they could never be whole when apart.

_Give them back, _she pleads.

She finds herself facing a walled garden. Monsieur Marius is smiling at her, and she smiles back, then she turns and realizes who it was meant for. Cosette. And they smile at each other, caught up in that blissful world of theirs which she could never be a part of. Suddenly, she is the only one left. The alley is cold haze in the rain and memories beckon her to nights spent trudging through the streets daydreaming of the Pontmercy boy. _Not anymore_.

Sunlight filters through the window, basking her in its glow. The warmth soaks through her skin deep into her very bones, renewing strength sapped by fever. The night is over, and a new day has begun. Something stirs within, a raw hunger for life.

The numbness wears off and she feels pain. She groans and clutches the soft fabric under her. She is lying in bed. For a brief moment, she is afraid to open her eyes, a part of her still hoping this is a vision of the afterlife and she is truly and actually dead.

She isn't.

* * *

He is dead. He is dead and off to join his friends in eternal rest as a reward for their labors in the land of the living.

He finds himself in a tunnel. No gas lamps or candles light the way, yet the very walls glow brighter than the sun at noon. A long line of people is marching in a procession. Judging by their clothes, they come from all walks of life. The mighty, the wretched, and the damned. Ahead, the road forks in two. The left branch is wide and crammed with travelers and the other is so narrow that most who traverse that path walk single-file.

Then he sees them. Courfeyrac and Comberferre and the rest of the Les Amis exchanging a hearty pats on the shoulder as they near the point of divergence. To his surprise, none of them bear bullet wounds or any marks of the battle that has just taken place. In a rush to get to them, he pushes and shoves and squeezes himself to join the ranks, but like spirits, they pass through him.

"Comberferre! Joly!" He reaches out, yet they too are no more tangible than mist.

Comberferre shakes his head as Joly mouths some words. He cannot hear, amidst the bustle of the enormous crowd, but reading the other's lips, it dawns on him.

_Not yet._

Then he feels the pull of wind sucking him back, away from his friends, away from this ethereal realm. He is too exhausted to struggle as the force hurtles him through cold space and drops him in the middle of nowhere.

He finds himself trapped in black silence. His body is aching like a cannon had ripped him to shreds. Probably it has. Is this the afterlife, dark and painful? Was this punishment for leading the revolution that cost his friends' lives? He must find his men, but he cannot move because of the pain. He can only groan in frustration.

A faint voice in the distance calls to him.

"Enjolras."

The voice is weak and hoarse and somehow familiar.

"Enjolras, wake up."

His eyelids flutter open. He sees a blue sky.

* * *

**Kindly leave a review if you liked it. If you spot any errors, please tell me. Feedback and constructive criticism will be much appreciated! :3**


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